Dark Paradise
by la lisboa
Summary: [It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.] Oneshot vignette series. Very angsty Gremma.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything you recognize from the show or the hauntingly beautiful Lana del Rey song.

**A/N:** This is a oneshot I've wanted to write for a while. It's dark and confusing and I'm not actually sure how I feel about it. But in case you're in the mood for some Gremma angst, here it is.

* * *

_i. __No one compares to you  
But there's no you  
Except in my dreams tonight._

Emma wraps her arms around herself against the cool evening air. She has been so intent on leaving the apartment, getting away from the sickening looks of affection her parents kept sharing, that she hasn't even thought to bring a warmer jacket. She's grateful that Henry is at Regina's; even though she's still wary around Regina, she somehow thinks less harm will be done at Regina's manor than back at the apartment, where Henry would be watching her parents fool around in bed like teenagers.

Emma sighs as she approaches the dock. Ever since they got back from the Enchanted Forest, she's felt like there's been a piece of her missing. Her parents have found each other again (for the umpteenth time, as far as she can tell), and Henry is more than happy to be part of their family. But Emma still feels like an outsider, despite everything Mary Margaret told her back in the Enchanted Forest. There's a piece of her missing, and it may not be one that can be filled just by living in the same tiny apartment as the people who had created her.

Then, of course, there's the other feeling. The one that creeps up on her when she's not thinking about it. The one that fills her chest with grief and anger and regret every time her fingers brush against the lace tied around her wrist.

The one that tells her it's not that she's disgusted by watching her horny parents. Not _just_ that, anyway.

She's jealous of what they have. It's something she could have had once, before Regina had ripped it away from her. Now that she understands the power of true love's kiss, she realizes what she has lost.

_Graham._

There's a man sitting on the bench by the dock. His back is to her, but Emma would have recognized those unruly curls anywhere. She walks toward him, vaguely aware of the fact that this is impossible, that she shouldn't get her hopes up. But still, she can't help but wonder…

He turns around as she reaches him. "Hi."

His drawl is so familiar, so achingly familiar, that she freezes for a moment. As much as she hoped it would be him, Emma never thought it actually could be.

"Hi," she finally breathes.

Graham scoots over to make room for her on the bench. Emma sits down next to him.

"Nice day, isn't it?" he asks.

Emma scrutinizes him. His eyes are as warm as ever, his dimples when he smiles just as obvious. She wants to touch him, to takes his hands in hers, to press her lips against his, and _feel_ him beneath her, to know that this is real, and not just –

"Am I dead?"

Graham laughs. "Of course not," he replies. "Just sleeping."

Emma smiles weakly. _Sleeping. Right. It's only a dream._

She can't help but feel disappointed.

_ii. __Loving you forever, can't be wrong  
Even though you're not here, won't move on_**  
**

The next day (or is it night?) the bench is empty. Emma knows it's silly, knows that she shouldn't have expected anything but an empty bench…but she can't help but feel let down. All they'd done was talk, but it had been the first real conversation Emma had had with anyone in forever. There was something about talking to Graham, something so calm and reassuring about his presence, which made talking to him so much easier than talking to anyone else in her family.

Or maybe it's just because she knows nothing she says to him is real. There are no consequences for conversations in a dream world with a man who's been dead for months.

Emma sighs and sinks down on the bench. Maybe it's better this way, she tells herself. Because at least this way, she doesn't have to remember. This way, she doesn't have to feel guilty. Guilty for confessing her fears about never fitting in with her family to Graham instead of her mother; guilty for being the reason he's in her dreams in the first place.

"Hey there, stranger."

Emma blinks. Graham is standing in front of her, his smile as wide and bright as ever. She hesitates, torn between giving in to what she'd wanted all along, and running from what she knows can't be good for her.

But when has she ever done what's good for her?

"Hey there, yourself."

Graham sits down next to her on the bench. "Was today any better?"

Emma shrugs. "The same."

"At least it wasn't worse."

Emma manages a half-smile. "True."

"Henry seems to be handling things well."

Emma frowns. Graham's comment is so nonchalant, as though he had seen her boy himself just minutes before. It's easy and relaxed, like they're talking about a world they both inhabit, like they were discussing something as normal as Granny's new menu item or Red's latest whore couture. Not about something he couldn't possibly know anything about.

"How do you know that?" Emma asks, narrowing her eyes. She tries to keep the tone of suspicion out of her voice, but she isn't sure how well she succeeds.

Graham chuckles. "I've always been able to tell exactly what you're thinking."

Emma rolls her eyes. She wants to deny it, but something stops her.

Maybe it's the truth.

"He's handling it better than I am," Emma admits finally.

Graham nods. "I always wondered what it would be like to meet my family. When you grow up without one, you dream of what they'll be like. What your father teaches you, what songs your mother sings to you as she rocks you to sleep. All the things you never think you can have…until you do."

Emma bites her lip. "I don't want Mary Margaret to sing to me."

"Not anymore," Graham concedes. "But you wanted it once."

"Once, maybe," Emma says. "When I was five."

Graham smiles sympathetically. Emma thinks it's a little too knowing.

"Henry's better at this," Emma says instead. "It's because he didn't have twenty-eight years of questions, of constantly wondering what you did wrong or why your parents gave you up. I couldn't even understand why they didn't bring me to a hospital. I didn't know – I had no idea that it would be something like – something like-"

"Something like this," Graham finishes softly.

Emma nods. "I always wanted to find my family. And then when I did…" She sighs. "Things were easier, before. Before I knew about magic or your world or the curse – before everything." She closes her eyes, fighting back the sudden rush of tears. But Graham's hand closes around hers, and his skin is so warm and real, that she can't hold back any longer.

"Everything was so much easier…when you were still alive."

_iii. __Every time I close my eyes  
It's like a dark paradise  
No one compares to you  
I'm scared that you  
Won't be waiting on the other side_

Watching her parents has become literally painful. It starts as a gnawing ache in her heart that won't go away. It grows to a stomachache that she knows isn't just her being squeamish about watching her parents make cow eyes at each other across the dinner table. It's gotten to the point where she can't take it anymore, because her parents are a living reminder of what she could have had.

She makes the mistake of reading with Henry. It's never a mistake to read with her son, but of course, he only wants to read from the fairytale book. Or biography of her parents. Same difference, really.

Everything goes fine until they get to his story. And it's all Emma can do not to break down in tears. Henry might not understand what Regina meant when she told the guards to take him to the bedchamber (at least, she hopes he doesn't…hopes he can't imagine what Regina would have done to him, hopes he doesn't think about the fact that it would have been forced), but _she_ does. She knows. She knows what it's like to be in that situation, so powerless and weak.

It's the worst feeling in the world.

The room begins to spin and Emma drops her head into her hands. She feels her mother's hands on her back immediately, but the touch brings her no comfort. She ignores the cries of her startled family as she leaps to her feet and runs from the apartment. She just needs to breathe.

But there is no air.

She bolts down the empty streets, as though she can outrun the realization, the sickening feelings of horror and disgust building in her chest. She runs as though she's being chased by something more than a memory, something viler than regret, more painful than death.

"Emma!"

She hears him calling, but doesn't turn around. She can't turn around; she can't stop running. She knows if she sees him, she won't be able to keep it together. Just looking at him would be painful, knowing what she knows now. Knowing what Regina did to him.

"Emma, wait!"

His hands on her shoulder stops her. How he caught up to her, she has no idea, but suddenly he's _there. _She barely has time to register the fact he's found her before he turns her around to face him. His eyes are dark with concern as he cups her face with his hands. Emma feels her guilt increase tenfold: even now, after everything, he wants to comfort _her_ about what happened to him.

Emma's breaths come in painful gasps. She swallows, trying to find the words. She's read the story, but she has to know for sure. Because if there's any chance…any at all…

"Regina – when she – did she-?"

"Yes."

Emma swears her heart skipped a beat. Her mouth goes very dry. "And – here?"

Graham nods, never lowering his gaze from hers. "Yes."

Emma presses her lips together, trying to hold back the sob that threatens to escape. She needs to be strong. He's the one who has been hurt.

He's the one she didn't save.

Why hadn't she read the book sooner? If she'd only believed – if she'd listened to what Henry was trying to tell her – what if she could have stopped it? She could have taken him away from Regina, gotten him away from that monster. Maybe she wouldn't have – maybe he'd even still be -

"It wasn't your fault," he whispers.

Emma shakes her head, blinking back tears. "But I could have saved you."

Graham takes her hand and brings it to his chest, over the spot where his heart should have been. "You did save me."

"Not in time," Emma mutters.

She feels his hand on her chin and unwillingly looks up at him. She doesn't want to see the scars. She's scared to see them, scared to see how badly Regina has hurt him. Scared that she'll never be able to have a normal conversation with Regina because she wants to bury that woman for what she did to Graham.

But Graham's eyes are soft. He stares at her for a moment, and then shifts his hand to cup her cheek. He brings her toward him, slowly, hesitantly, giving her every chance to pull back.

She doesn't.

_iv_. _All my friends ask me why I stay strong  
Tell 'em when you find true love it lives on_

She can't stop relieving that night. For weeks, it was the night that he died, the last time they had kissed. But now, it's something else entirely. It's last night, the _new _last time they have kissed.

She knows it's irrational, knows it's silly, and impossible, and probably unhealthy to be thinking about her dreams like this, but at the same time, she simply can't stop. The feeling of his soft lips against hers felt so real, his hands on her back felt so safe, so perfect, like everything was the way it should be.

She can't think should have _been._

"Are you listening to me, Emma?"

Emma starts. "Huh?"

Her mother smiles. "I asked if you were hungry."

Emma shakes her head. "Not really. I ate at Granny's before I left the station."

This last part is a lie, but she doesn't want to eat now. Telling her mother she already ate is the only way to avoid the small talk conversation at the table. It's not that she doesn't want to talk to her mother – although it's _sort of_ that – but it's also that she doesn't want anything to distract her from her thoughts. Thoughts that she knows she shouldn't be having, but ones she doesn't want to make go away.

"How's that going?" Mary Margaret asks.

"How's what going?"

"The station," Mary Margaret clarifies. "Being sheriff."

"Oh." Emma inwardly sighs. It seems that her mother is going to insist that they have some sort of conversation. She silently curses her father and Henry for being out doing whatever they're doing. For leaving her alone with her mother when all Emma wants is to be alone with her thoughts.

"I miss him, too," Mary Margaret offers in Emma's continued silence.

"Graham?"

Mary Margaret nods. "Yes. I mean – the Huntsman. He was the Huntsman in the Enchanted Forest."

Emma immediately becomes more interested in the conversation. Anything that allows her to talk about Graham.

"He saved your life," Emma says. "I read about it in Henry's book." Mary Margaret nods, and before Emma can stop herself, she asks, "Did you ever thank him?"

She frowns, brow furrowed. "I don't – no, I don't think so." Mary Margaret looks down. "I never got the chance. I want to say that your fa – I mean, David – did, though. The Huntsman helped us a lot."

Emma's hands ball into fists at her sides. She knows it's not her mother's fault, knows that if Mary Margaret had had the chance to thank the Huntsman, surely she would have. But the fact that she didn't, that Graham had suffered for years for an act of kindness for which he was never thanked – it's more than she can take.

"Emma?"

"She raped him."

Mary Margaret's eyes widen. "What?"

"She raped him. Regina. She took his heart and she forced him to – to-" Emma chokes on the words and swallows hard. "I loved him," she whispers. "I loved him, and the whole time, she was-"

"He loved you, too," Mary Margaret assures her. "Even without his heart, I know he loved you."

Emma raises her eyebrows. "How do you know?"

Mary Margaret smiles sadly. "Because I remember the way he looked at you. It was the same way your father always looks at me."

_v. __Every time I close my eyes  
It's like a dark paradise  
Oh oh oh oh, ha ha ha ha  
I don't wanna wake up from this tonight_

When she reaches the bench, he's already waiting for her. He has set out a picnic for them, and Emma can't help but smile at the gesture. It's silly and overly romantic, and normally she would scoff at such displays, but today all she can do is grin.

"Dinner is served," Graham murmurs in her ear as she sits down next to him. "And I already know what I want for dessert."

Emma blushes as she reaches for a sandwich. It's been a long time – probably not since Neal, now that she stops to think about it – that someone has made her feel this special, this wanted. The thought sends a shiver of anticipation down her spine. She can sense what he wants – and she knows she wants to give it to him.

When they've finished, they stretch out on the picnic blanket. Emma rests her head on Graham's chest, savoring his warm body against hers. She can feel his heart beating beneath her ear.

And then it hits her.

"What's wrong?" Graham asks as Emma pulls back.

"I can hear it," Emma whispers.

"Hear what?" Graham frowns, and then puts his hand over his chest where Emma's head had been. "Oh, that."

"That," Emma repeats. _That _is everything.

But Graham merely smiles. "I told you. You gave my heart back to me."

But Emma shakes her head. "No – no, I didn't. Regina crushed it. She crushed it, and you died. You can't have – but that's not-"

Graham takes her hands and slowly draws her closer. "You gave my heart back to me," he says again. "With you, I felt again. I felt love. And that means more to me than any physical organ. _You_ are my heart, Emma." He kisses her softly. "And you brought my heart back to me."

_vi. __And there's no remedy  
For memory  
Your face is like a melody,  
It won't leave my head_

The minutes melt into hours and the hours into days. The world seems to stand still with Graham, a moment suspended in mid-air. She's never felt this happy, this free, but she can't shake the sickening feeling of worry in the pit of her stomach. It's the problem that occupies her mind during the day and haunts her stolen moments with Graham at night.

"What is it?" Graham asks quietly.

Emma rolls over to face him. "How do you know I'm thinking about anything?"

Graham gives her a look. "I always know what you're thinking."

There's something romantic about that, about someone knowing her so completely that her every thought is his, too. But there's something strange about the way Graham says it, like he means it for some other reason, some reason more sinister than true love. Emma bites her lip, not sure she wants to ask him what he means. She wonders if this is just another exercise in futility. He probably already knows.

But she has to know, too. Has to find out, even if the answer is not what she wants to hear. Because she's never done anything halfway, and she's not going to start now. But she has to protect herself. She can't lose him again.

"Will you always be here?"

Graham gently squeezes her hand. "I will always be with you."

"But will you be _with_ me, here, like this?" Emma wants to know.

Graham sighs. "That's not up to me, Emma. It's your dream."

"Is it just a dream?" Emma presses. "Because you feel so real to me." She presses her thumb into his palm, feels his warm skin beneath the pad of her thumb. "This feels – this feels amazing. I feel alive when I'm with you." Her words come in a rush now. "And when I'm alone, I think about you. I wonder what you're doing in here – in this – afterlife, or whatever this is." Emma takes a breath. "Is that was this is? An afterlife?"

But Graham merely shrugs. "Your guess is as good as mine."

Emma can feel frustration rising in her chest. "How can you be so calm about this?" she bursts out. "Don't you understand? I need to know how you're here. I have to know if you – I have to know if you're going to leave again." She takes a shaky breath. "Because I can't – if you're just going to leave-"

"I never wanted to hurt you," Graham says sadly. "I'm sorry."

She can feel tears pricking her eyes. "It's not your fault."

"But I can still be sorry," he whispers. "Come here." He opens his arms and Emma leans against his chest. It smells of wood and pine needles and just so much like _him_. "I don't know what this is," Graham begins. "But I will stay as long as I can."

She closes her eyes and sighs. She never wants this moment to end.

_vii. __There's no relief,  
I see you in my sleep  
And everybody's rushing me,  
But I can feel you touching me_

"Emma, I need to talk to you."

With what feels like great effort, Emma turns around to face Mary Margaret. "Yes?"

The look on Mary Margaret's face is hesitant; she is uncharacteristically nervous. She plays with her hands as she approaches Emma on the couch and then sits down next to her, just on the edge of the cushion. Mary Margaret bites her lip, opens her mouth to speak, but then bites her lip again. She clearly doesn't know what to say, or how to say it, but Emma isn't willing to help.

"Yes?" Emma prompts in Mary Margaret's continued silence.

"It's just that – well, your – David – and I have noticed – and Henry, too-" Mary Margaret stammers into silence. The flustered expression would be endearing if Emma weren't fighting a major headache. She wonders how it's possible to still feel tired when she managed to sleep several hours almost every night this week.

Emma sighs and rubs the bridge of her nose. "Whatever it is, can you just say it, please? I'm tired and want to take a nap."

"But that's just it, Emma!" Mary Margaret bursts out. "How can you be tired? You've been sleeping so much, it's – well, we've all noticed it."

Emma narrows her eyes. "I have a very active job. I need to be well-rested."

"But, Emma," she presses, "it's – it's like you're never here anymore. All you do is come home and sleep. You don't even join us for dinner. Are you eating at the station? You look so pale…"

Emma closes her eyes, allowing Mary Margaret's words to wash over her and then recede into silence. She doesn't want to think about this now, doesn't want to know that her forays into the dream world or whatever it is have not gone unnoticed by her family. She wonders if she should sleep at the station to avoid them. Because she can't tell them what's happening, they wouldn't understand. Or they would understand, but insist it's not healthy, that it's wrong, that she should see Dr. Hopper for grief counseling –

"Are you listening to me, Emma?"

Emma sighs again and opens her eyes. "Sort of."

The look on her mother's face has gone from hesitation to concern. "You really don't look well," Mary Margaret says quietly. "Are you sleeping all right?"

Emma shrugs, knowing that it would be a lie to do anything else. She lives for the moments she spends with Graham in her dreams, but between being present for him and present on the job, she's exhausted. She wants to sleep, she wants one night away from him, away from the guilt and the grief and the fear that he'll leave her again. But any night she spends away from him could be the night that he disappears for good.

She doesn't think she can lose him again.

She can still feel his breath against her cheek, his last kiss lingering on her lips.

_viii. __There's no release,  
I feel you in my dreams  
Telling me I'm fine_

Her head is pounding so hard, she can barely think straight. She's walking toward the bench, but it doesn't seem to be getting any closer. Emma stumbles, grabbing at a lamppost to steady herself.

She blinks, trying to clear the haze from before her eyes. There's a man in the distance. His back is to her, but she knows it's him. She wants to call out, but she doesn't want to ask for his help. She doesn't want him to see her like this, so weak, so pitiful. Her conversation with Mary Margaret is still ringing in her ears.

He turns around, but doesn't move. He watches her with an inscrutable expression on his face. Emma focuses on the bench, but she can still feel Graham's eyes on her as she reaches him. She sinks down onto the bench, dropping her head into her hands. She wonders why the painkillers she took back at the apartment haven't kicked in yet.

"We can't do this anymore."

Emma raises her head slightly. "What?"

"I can't be here," Graham explains. His voice is low, but steady. "I don't think we should do this."

Emma closes her eyes, shaking her head. This can't be happening. Is this a dream? She just wants to wake up. To leave this place and fall asleep again, fall into another world, a world in which Graham isn't sitting next to her on a bench, looking at her with the deepest expression of sadness and concern and regret she's ever seen –

"No." The word falls from her lips. "No, no, no!" She stands up in front of him, ignoring the wave of dizziness that washes over her. "No, you can't do that. You said that this was my dream, you said that it was up to _me._ It's not up to you."

But Graham is shaking his head. "It's not good for you, Emma."

"Don't say that!"

"I can see what it's doing to you," he continues softly. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"Then don't leave me!" Emma insists. "You can't go. You said you would stay as long as you could. I still want you – I still need you here with me. I can't-" Her breath catches in her throat. "I can't lose you again."

For a moment, she thinks he will change his mind. His eyes widen in realization, and she wonders if her words have finally gotten through to him, if he can now understand just how much she needs him here, how much she lives for these moments. How she doesn't think she would be able to go on if he just _left._

But then he sighs. "I'm sorry."

"No!" Emma reaches for his hand, but he pulls back and she grasps at only air. "No, please, Graham. Don't leave me!" She tries to grab his arm, but again is met with only air. Her world begins to spin, and she flings out her hands wildly, trying to orient herself. She struggles to keep her eyes open, forces herself not to blink, because if she blinks, if she loses sight of him for just a second, she might never see him again.

"Graham!" Her voice is strangled. "Graham? Graham? Graham!"

But there's nothing she can do.

He's already gone.

_ix. __Your soul is haunting me  
And telling me  
That everything is fine  
But I wish I was dead  
(dead like you)_

"Graham!"

The next night – or is it the same, she has no sense of time – the bench is empty. There's no one else in sight, not even gulls by the harbor. The only thing she can hear is her own heart pounding in her ears, the sound magnified by the suffocating silence around her.

"Where are you?" Emma spins around. "Graham?"

He can't be gone. She refuses to believe it. His heart has only just stopped beating. There's still time to save him.

"Come back to me!" Emma calls. "Please, come back to me."

But why isn't he responding?

"Graham!"

She feels his absence like a knife to the heart.

The pain is sudden and blinding. Emma clutches at her chest, doubling over. She tries to draw breath, but she can't fill her lungs. She drops to her knees, gasping, gagging as she expels the last of her oxygen.

Is this what dying feels like?

She claws at the air, as though she can grab the oxygen molecules in her hand and absorb them through her skin. The lack of oxygen is making her dizzy. The ground seems to disappear and is replaced by the cold linoleum of the sheriff's office. The bench behind her has become a desk. And she's shaking, she's shaking so hard she can't even think, but she doesn't know how to make it stop.

"Emma."

And all at once, it ends.

She sucks in breath like a swimmer who has just broken the water's surface after a long dive. The world finally stops spinning, and she opens her eyes slowly. The desk has become a bench. The ground is no longer linoleum, but gravel.

And then she knows.

"Don't do that again." Graham is sitting beside her on the ground, his face ghostly pale. "Don't you _dare _scare me like that ever again."

Emma raises her eyebrows as she massages her chest. "I'm surprised you care."

Graham draws back like she's slapped him across the face. "I have always cared about you, Emma." He pauses before adding, "I still do."

"But you left me," Emma whispers. "I lost you."

"I lost you, too," Graham says. "We lost each other. Don't you know how much I miss you? It might even be more than you miss me."

"But you're dead," Emma mumbles. "You shouldn't feel anything."

"Emma." Graham's expression is almost pitiful. "You know this by now. You don't need a heart to feel."

He rests his hand on top of hers. At first, she feels nothing. But then she looks at his face, at the warmth in his eyes, at the way his lips curl upward into the tiniest of smiles. And then she knows.

"I will always love you," she whispers.

He nods, leaning closer. "And I will always love you. I don't need a heart to love you," he murmurs. She closes her eyes, and for a moment, one glorious moment, she feels his breath tickling her cheek, like a whisper in the wind.

"But you do need a heart to live."

_x. __All my friends tell me I should move on_**  
**

The evening air is cool and crisp. Emma wraps her arms around herself as she walks. She's unsteady on her feet, like she's recovering from a bad bout of the flu. She feels awake for the first time in a long time.

She reaches a bench overlooking the dock. The bench is empty, and for a moment, she wonders if she's supposed to be disappointed. But then, her face relaxes into a smile. She wanted to come here to think, to be alone with her thoughts and nothing else.

Her gaze drifts over the horizon. The water is so calm, so tranquil. She wonders why that surprises her.

It's not until she turns away from the dock to head back to the apartment that it hits her.

It's because, for the first time in forever, so is she.


End file.
